Colours
by ko-drabbles
Summary: He wakes up, the colour fades, and it's all back to grey. Like it was. History repeats itself, he supposes. [TW: depression, self-harm, suicidal thoughts, suicide attempt]
1. Grey

He remembered a few years ago, when he had nothing but his family's shadow, leech-like classmates and kind bodyguards to hold close to his chest in the dark of the night. He always suspected something was wrong, of course. People don't just wake up to a world devoid of colour, wandering through each day like a ghost with an empty chest. Nothing tasted right, a bread roll for breakfast, lunch and dinner; served with a smile that made him feel ill.

Because he was okay, right? No, not really. It was all sweet - **fake** \- smiles and soft voices. That was the pretty mask he wore and he fooled every fucking person. He drank his tea and took his showers **scalding**. Burnt tongue and red, sensitive skin. It was the only hint of colour, everything grey and washed out.

Then, Tamaki happened. He ran into his grey world and scribbled bright colours on the walls like a child, tore down that mask and gave him... colour. Joy. Red, oranges, yellows, greens, blues, purples... So bright, so... rainbow. So fucking ironic, really. Thinking of rainbows while staring at him. Still... It got better. He had friends - real friends. It wasn't that mutually beneficial crap he spouted... He loved them, they **saved him**. He probably would've hung himself otherwise, the note on his computer printed and laying in plain view on his desk.

Hence his fear when he opened his eyes to that dank, **grey** world.

It was numb, really; fear barely cutting through the layer of apathy that had settled over him. He felt tired, wanted to just curl up under his blankets and sleep. He just wanted to be alone, didn't want to go to school... He'd been feeling rough, but he thought he was getting the flu. He didn't even want to consider **this**.

 **Depression**.

He really was a useless piece of shit sometimes... He was supposed to be happy. Things get better, they **got better**. Here he was again... He was so sure of it. Just laying there, staring at the ceiling, trying to will himself to get up. The struggle was too familiar, and he hated it.

He hated himself, that never really went away. Why would it? It only eased when he drank his tea scalding hot.

"Sir?"

Tachibana.

He coughs, fairly convincing, and turns his gaze to the man he wishes was his father.

"'m sick," He says, hoarse edge to his voice that he's perfected, "Can't get up..."

Not a lie.

His dear, dear bodyguard frowns, crossing the room and pressing the back of his hand to his forehead. He just looked up at him, resisting the urge to close his eyes and lean into the touch. Is he that deprived?

"You aren't warm..." Tachibana says, and maybe it's the **dead grey** of Kyoya's eyes that shifts the man's gaze into something softer, sadder. Maybe it's the exhaustion and dark circles that prompts him to continue, "I'll... call the school. Tell them you aren't coming in."

And then he's alone. Nothing but himself and the **grey**.

And he cries.


	2. Blue

Tachibana set him "goals" to accomplish a for a few days; getting out of bed, brushing his teeth, eating something, taking a shower. It distantly felt extremely patronising, but just getting up to brush his teeth left him exhausted and longing for his bed again. It was all dull, floating through like an apparition as he attempted to do extremely basic tasks all other people do to function. Back in the safety of his duvet cocoon, he spent a little longer than he was proud of pondering if he really was a living, thinking, feeling human in these moments.

Still, despite how, well... utterly shit he felt, and how fuzzy his mind was, three days was all Tachibana was willing to "enable" him. He was packed off to school with the promise that, if he felt _that bad_ , he could go home sick about three hours in. He wasn't angry at his beloved bodyguard at all; both because he was too numb for a strong reaction, and it wasn't wrong. He knew that the normality and structure would help. But he also knew that he wanted to crawl into his bed again and sleep. Nothing really felt all that important when you think about how your existence felt unimportant in the grand scheme of things; especially as you knew you were the product of makeup sex and too much wine.

He just wanders through the halls to his classroom, mask clipping into place sickeningly easily. He remembered how to do it, from way back in middle school; it shouldn't have unsettled him, it didn't mean anything, but he wasn't really in his right mind. He was sick, tired, and he wanted to be anywhere else but here.

It would be alright, though. Tamaki was here. Tamaki did… _something_ to fix him before, it would happen again. They'd have classes, he'd go to club, and he'd smile like it was second nature. He'd be happy because his life _was_ happy now. His father was _trying_ , he had loyal friends he loved, everything was _so good_. Then… why? Why was he like this? Chemical imbalances happened, of course, but he was miserable before because he was isolated. Tamaki **fixed him**.

It wasn't magical, however. He met up with Tamaki, who worried and flitted around him, and he made the excuse that – while not contagious, _put the mask down_ – he was still a little sick. Nothing was different. The excuses left a sour taste in his mouth, his smile hurt, his voice was too monotone, too soft. He really should have expected that.

"I basically just slept, and I'm still exhausted. I might go home early…" He told him, and it wasn't wrong. In fact, that was the most honest thing he'd said all day.

He sat in classes, right up until art class. He enjoyed art, immensely. He liked to think of himself as a painter, even if he didn't do as much as he'd like. Classic oils and water colours – boring, but beautiful and _hard to do_. Meanwhile, Tamaki worked on making _perfect_ little dots on his piece of pop art; a yellow haired woman crying blue tears.

It's something that rubbed him the wrong way; blue tears. It was ridiculous, and irrational, but everyone has those odd little pet peeves that don't make any sense. Something in him says that it's because, of all the tears he's cried while alone in his room, not a single one was blue. Another part of him says that in a world where tears are like blue ink, he wouldn't be able to hide like he does. If that happened, he'd have to scrub it off his face, sneak his clothes and bedsheets down to wash them with a flustered, red face. Not as if that doesn't happen occasionally, he is a teenager, but still.

Really, if tears were blue, it'd be harder to conceal – and that thought puts him a little on edge. Ridiculous, but still.

What also annoys him is how _beautiful_ some tears are shown. A perfect look of elegent sorrow, tears glistening. No. Not in his experience, at least. He's all snot and blotchy, sticky cheeks. It's ugly and embarrassing, he doesn't _want_ to cry, but he does. He does because his mind doesn't seem to realise that everything's so fucking _great_ now!

"Kyoya?" He heard Tamaki inquire, turning his attention away from the _grey, grey, oh so grey_ canvas, "Are you alright? Your quiet…"

He smiles, his cheeks ache, and he's glad that tears aren't actually blue ink.

"I'm fine."


	3. Yellow

He hated how short his school days seemed to be now, basically begging Tachibana to allow him to return home. His notes were sloppy at best, and he couldn't focus enough to complete his tests. Everything was shorthand, not explained, and his grades suffered. Luckily, these weren't actual exams, but their teachers made sure to keep up to date.

Are you feeling alright, Ootori-san? Have you been to the doctors'? Has your father taken you to get checked out? Question after question and no real answer given. The finances were shared with Haruhi and Kaoru, Tamaki letting something slip. What, he wasn't sure, but they were more than happy to help their "sick" senpai.

The thing was… he knew this. He knew what it was. It never affected his academic ability before, but he wasn't really sleeping or eating. He spent most of his nights staring up at the ceiling, contemplating the point of it all, and food turned to dirt and ashes in his mouth. Nothing appetized him. Nothing really mattered to him. When you spend hours thinking about the insignificance of your existence as a whole, homework doesn't appeal. He was too tired for that, despite being dragged into a void of existential contemplation and crisis.

His friends were worried, of course. Despite never verbally bringing up each other's issues, Mori and he had a friendship based on silent support. He didn't feel completely alone on the days where he felt too weighed down and his tongue felt to heavy to talk. Still, there were times when the silence was too thick and noxious, slowly suffocating him as they sat there. Like he needed to say something, but it left a bad taste in his mouth. On those days, he scratches at his arms and Mori gave him a sad look of both understanding and comradery.

But Mori couldn't say anything, just like Kyoya couldn't say anything when Honey was pushed into throwing him down. Firstly, that wasn't their sort of friendship; silence was deeply rooted in their compatibility. Secondly… It was hypocritical. For any human flaws they might've had, neither of them wished to be a hypocrite. They built their support on silence, and that was how it'd stay.

Hikaru couldn't give less of a shit about him… usually. Now, he was asking questions. He was asking how his day went, if he'd like to lie down in the back room; you look like you're about to faint and you can't concentrate, go sleep it off. It was, in a word, disturbing. He much preferred the Hikaru who almost acted like a possessive cat, raising his back whenever he and Kaoru would go off on their own. It was downtime, and he and Kaoru were becoming close. Until this **thing** came back, at least; he found himself preferring the comfort of his room over anything they could do together.

Kaoru… He barely knew. Sometimes he didn't really see the other boy, other times he flitted around him as if Kyoya was made of glass. While he knew that no one knew what was wrong, no one knew how to make it better, it still irritated him. Not Kaoru, really – he was trying his best – but himself. He shouldn't be irritated when he was the one to blame, allowing this thing to infect him once more. Logically, he knew it wasn't really his fault, but he couldn't help but feel sick with himself over it.

Then, there was Haruhi and Tamaki. Both had lost their mothers to illness, in some way. Tamaki's mother was still alive, yes, but circumstances and sacrifices came between them. For those two, it set off something of a fear in both of them. He was pale, slow, dark circles laying beneath caked makeup in some vain attempt to look at least a little healthier. But, at the end of the day, he felt like he was in freefall. Soon, he'd hit the ground, bloody and broken. Dead.

Free from all of this.

He shook his head, trying to rid himself of that thought. It was happening… not frequently, but not rarely either. It was disquieting, quite frankly scary, but he was still fine. Not functioning perfectly, he couldn't lie to himself that much, but fine. He was still alive… in a sense. He still breathed, still had a heartbeat. He wasn't physically ill, so all he had to do was pull his mind together. Despite acting like one, he wasn't some sort of useless NEET or hikikomori. He was intelligent, witty, and he was going to succeed… Right? Honestly, he wasn't even that sure anymore…

"Ootori-kun, are you paying attention?"

The drama teacher's voice snapped him back into reality, and it was startling, in a very temporary and minor way, just how normal this had become for him when those around him still seemed concerned. He wasn't used to this. He **wasn't**. It was just too familiar…

"Well, as I was saying," He teacher began, a hint heavily in her voice for him to start paying attention, "Tamaki and Kyoya, you'll be performing a song from the first act; There's A World. I want you both to show how to react, rather than just staring blankly when you don't have lines."

Tamaki was the one who took him to the stage, hand gripping his wrist tightly – but not tight enough. The music began, and there they were. A usually amazing double act, turned an amazing actor and a stone weighing him down. The support was gone, and Tamaki was left with a subpar performance. How unfair.

"I'll be Gabe, don't worry," Tamaki cut in, and he had to start wondering when Tamaki started giving him that almost pitying look. He had to wonder when he'd stopped finding it insulting, "You can be Diana. You won't have lines, but you're good at reacting."

He merely nodded. Honestly, he was just tired and numb right now. He just wanted to go home and sleep, but he just needed to muddle through until lunch. Then, he could go home. At least they were doing Next To Normal, which was a little too easy to act to at times. Who was he kidding? In general. He didn't want to think, he was too exhausted to just pretend these days. The song wasn't too long either, which was a Godsend.

The music began, and Tamaki started singing. The song was a melancholy, although beautiful one, a son singing to his mother about a place where she could be happy. As Tamaki sang it, it was his best friend just… talking about the host club. While he'd still been exhausted there recently, it was a place of happiness. That, and Tamaki's singing voice really was lovely.

However, despite the pretty promises made, in the context of the play it was a lot more sinister. It was someone's own delusion pushing them to suicide, which cut a little too close to his situation in that moment. He didn't really want to kill himself, but his thoughts strayed in that direction fairly often. Really, he just wanted to die somehow; that was all. Worrying, but less likely to actually happen; he couldn't shame his family like that. He couldn't bring himself to, even if everything felt strained.

He just wanted to stop going around in a circle, like his mother did; circling the drain until he went under, drowning in his own, illogical feelings of melancholy. He'd done this all before, but there was no saviour in the wings, waiting to ride in on a white stallion and rescue him. It was all a huge mess of metaphors, really; he was either a princess in the tower, or some disgusting piece of dirt or lint. It depended on his mood; he was either garbage, or plain pathetic.

At any other time, the thoughts might've triggered a self-deprecating smile, but all it seemed to do was drag his mood down further.

"Tamaki-kun! That was amazing!" The cheer cut through his thoughts, the sound coming back to the forefront of his mind, and he turned to see that their audience had certainly enjoyed the performance. A standing ovation. Of course, even with a lead weight, Tamaki was able to cast a spell over all who watched him. He always had that captivating magic.

"Kyoya?" Tamaki cut in, and he blinked. It was then he realised how wet his face was, tears running down his cheeks, "Are you alright? What's wrong?"

"I… Nothing," He dismissed, pushing himself to stand and wiping away the tears with the back of his hand, "You said to react, right?"

No one argued. No one ever did.


	4. Green

**A/N: I don't know why this is so long... (Well, I do, but still) If you heard hellish shrieking over the past few days, that was me. I called it green, but it's not as green as I thought it'd be... Oh well, I don't give a shit, I'm proud of this.**

* * *

Kyoya nearly cried with relief when the weekend came around once more, his prayers finally answered. He could huddle in bed and sleep with no consequence, though he'd possibly be pushed out of bed for meals. It was something that made the pressure from not being able to _do anything_ lessen, even if he was still numb and lifeless. It was more comfortable to sleep away the feelings of depression and failure, forgetting his failed tests and frustrated friends, and leave behind his… worrying thoughts.

He wouldn't act on them. Throughout middle school he'd thought about how dying was a very attractive thought, but he'd never _done anything_. Well… Nothing much. A few light scars on his thighs, and that was all; a childish reaction to a hard situation, but it was a lot better than the permanent solution, no matter how embarrassing those scars were. All he had to do was keep them covered anyway, which was easy enough.

Hot showers and hot tea were enough. Probably. It made the whispers of those thoughts go away for a little while, and that was all he could ask for.

"Kyoya, are you awake?" Came Tachibana's voice from behind the door, accompanied by a knock. It seemed he was trying to avoid an alarm clock to the face, which was fair enough; he was self-aware enough to realise that he was a bitch in the mornings. In all honesty, that made the feat of Tachibana shoving him out of bed in the mornings all the more impressive.

It did make something in his chest sink, however; still needing his bodyguard to do that while he lay in bed like a lump. It made him feel vaguely sick, whatever little appetite he might have had completely disappearing. He was being rather ungrateful, wasn't he? He wasn't _doing anything_ , yet here Tachibana was. His friends still stuck by him. His father even _worried over him_ ; not enough to drag him to a doctor – yet – but still. That just _proved_ he was loved for more than his abilities!

… Then, why did he still feel completely alone?

"Yeah…" He answered, monosyllabic and simple so his voice wouldn't betray him. He wasn't crying, no, but he just didn't want to sound too… dead.

He pulled the duvet over his head when the door creaked open, not wanting to see Tachibana's faux-happy expression. Sometimes, there was no stoic mask at hand for the other man, and his eyes just looked sad and a little disappointed. He _knew_ that it was just the situation, not himself; it didn't stop the conclusions his sick brain supplied him with, though.

"Kyoya, it's time to get up," Tachibana said so, so softly, the barest hint of suggestion tinting the words like a faded watercolour.

"I don't have school today," Was his only answer, turning away when he felt Tachibana sit at the side of the bed, still under the covers as he curled in on himself, "I'm tired…"

He heard that soft, sad sigh that seemed to be his bodyguard's go-to answer these days, and it seemed to cut through him like a knife. While he knew what was wrong, why was it this bad? It wasn't like this in middle school, it didn't suck all of his energy and motivation out of him, reducing his role in the family to _pathetic invalid_. He felt a keen sense of guilt, and it almost fucking killed him each time.

He didn't even realise his shoulders were shaking until Tachibana laid a big, strong hand on his awkwardly prominent scapula. He wasn't sniffling, not yet at least, but his chest was tight, and his eyes seemed to burn. _Crybaby_.

"Kyoya… I love you, you know that, but you're always tired these days," Tachibana stated matter-of-factly, trying to be gentle but it still made him feel awful, "Come on. Why don't we do some fun things today? It's probably better than just staying in your dark room…"

It sounded like Tachibana was more saying that to himself, but he had a point. His mental health was already crappy, he didn't want to (somehow) make it worse; otherwise he probably would just kill himself. It sounded so flippant, so casual in his own head, and he tried to pretend that it actually shocked and scared him.

Still, going back to the matter at hand rather than letting his brain run off and do whatever it wanted, he slowly lifted the duvet and turned to look at Tachibana's blurry form for a moment. It would be tiring… Did he really want to bother? Not particularly. However… His bodyguards were family and he was more tired of letting them down.

"Okay," He agreed, pulling himself out of bed as if it were some sort of enticing tar pit, barely able to break the surface. He did, however, because he _could_ if he put in enough effort. He could do anything if he was motivated. That was the issue with depression because, even if it weren't some sort of parasitic disease, he found he'd lost some of the will to get better.

That's how you know when you're in deep.

Still, he managed to get out of bed. He had to brush his teeth and hair, but Tachibana let him stay in his pyjamas – for now. He'd rather Kyoya have the energy to do something nice than spend it all getting dressed. Baking, apparently; Aijima was already in the kitchen getting things ready.

Tachibana kept his hand on his back as they walked down to the kitchen, as if Kyoya would break into pieces without the contact. Honestly, with how delicate he was feeling, Kyoya wouldn't have been surprised if he did. Still, if Aijima was going to bake with him – Hotta far away so they avoided his little "helpful" additions – it promised to be rather fun.

It was fun after his father explained what being an Ootori entailed. It was fun after his mother slit her wrists. It was fun after Kuze cut ties and Kyoya realised he was surrounded by leeches and piranhas, not friends. No matter how terrible he felt, nothing had actually happened this time, so it'd be fun again.

 _It would be fun_.

Washing his hands, he gave Aijima a washed out, false smile that didn't reach his eyes; it was the thought that counts. It didn't seem to have the affect he wanted, however; the man coming over to clasp his shoulder and try to seem encouraging when Kyoya could only see _bleak sadness_ and _pity_. He could only see grey, after all.

"How are you feeling, Kyoya?" Aijima inquired, and it was so _obvious_ how fragile everyone thought he was, wrapping words up in cotton wool and pretending he could just look after himself, take some time off, and be okay. He was fast beginning to see that he was probably wrong about that himself…

"I'm okay, just tired…" He answered, like he'd done since this **thing** came back, trying to seem like he was more _fine_ than he was. Still, it was just settling into something resembling normal, he and Aijima pottering around the kitchen, baking cookies and chatting a little. Kyoya got to lick the spoon, but he just gave it to Tachibana wordlessly, with a look of apology in his eyes. He wasn't very sure what he was sorry for. Being a weight that brought down everyone around him? His unwillingness to do anything? His failed tests?

… Being himself? Probably. It sounded like him and, well, he wasn't a delight to deal with when he was _normal_ , and this seemed so much more troublesome. It was also something very… _him_ to think. Perhaps if his peers weren't parasites, or his parents had doted on him more as a child, he wouldn't have this complex about worth and success. Maybe then he could actually accept the fact that people loved him, even when he couldn't cope with life.

Or maybe this was just how he was hard-wired to be, and he should go take a swan-dive off the roof.

He ran his hand through his hair roughly, snagging tangles he'd missed with his half-assed attempt at brushing his bedhead, trying to get as far away from that thought as he could. His fingers twitched, and he was sure he looked like a psychiatric patient; standing there in his pyjamas, his fingers threaded in his mussed hair, and his eyes wide and crazed.

Jesus, he was fucked up. His head wasn't _normal_. He was thinking about his brain splattered across the driveway while baking cookies because, yes, that was a thing sane people did. Maybe this wasn't going to just get better? Maybe Tamaki couldn't fix him like before? This had been happening for weeks, and he was reduced to a useless, brainless _lump_ because of it; he didn't want to live like that!

Seeing a doctor was the logical option, but… Would that even work? Or would he just get pills and side affects and either gain weight or loose even more than he had, feeling completely sick and useless as he surveyed the damage. His mother gained weight, kicked up a fuss, and then got different ones that made her lose a good few kilograms in a month, which were also terrible. He wasn't self-obsessed, but he couldn't be in the host club if he was physically unappealing; he didn't have a cute personality to fall back on.

He was already a waste of Tamaki's time, he didn't need to ruin something that brought him so much _joy_.

His throat and chest were tight again, and he didn't know why. It wasn't like he was going to cry this time, not really, but he was making a conscious effort just to _breathe_ at this point. Everything felt crushing, oppressive. Tachibana and Aijima stopped their conversation and turning to him, the weight of their gaze on his bony back. It was all too much, far too much, and yet felt so tragically little to get so _worked up about_ – God, he was **pathetic**!

"Kyoya, are you alright?" Aijima broke in, and he just felt too much pressure from his ridiculous overthinking to even give him a proper answer. He just gave him a nod, mumbling something about taking the tray in the oven, and continued. He was more… ghostlike, as if he was staring at himself in some sort of dream.

He opened the oven, the heat escaping and hitting him square in the face, and he turned to pick up the oven glove… Then, stopped. He just stared at it for a moment, hand outstretched and mind whirring, and he went to pick up the cookies.

He screamed, bare skin gripping onto hot metal, and his loyal bodyguards rushed forward. They snatched his hand off the tray, and he saw how wide their eyes were through the blur of tears. They stared at him like he was crazy, Tachibana running off to get the first aid kit while Aijima tried to calm him down. However, all the shushing sounds the man made just made him panic more, spouting off apology after apology as tears spilled down his cheeks.

In a part of his brain unaffected by the pain, he had to wonder… Was that on purpose? He stared at the oven gloves, he reached out for them, then disregarded them. But it wasn't a _conscious decision_ , he didn't _want_ to burn himself! He wasn't sure which of those possibilities freaked him out more, to be honest. But there was this… _clarity_ , focussing on the pain and not his overactive thoughts. It was far more effective than the hot showers and the boiling tea; perhaps even more so than the cuts on his thighs.

He was in too deep, he had to tell his father, had to go to the doctor… Or he could keep this clarity to himself and just let this all happen, let the world move around him as it was now; his hand under cold, running water as Tachibana rummaged around the box for some sort of salve or ointment. This was okay. This was fine.

They both made short work of the first aid, of course they did, but the silence felt unbearable; like he was waiting for them to say about just how _damaged_ he was. That could never be pleasant. He just cradled his injured hand and hoped that this would be dropped soon. He wanted to postpone the inevitable _talk_ for as long as possible, which was why he couldn't go to a counsellor. This pregnant pause was only going to give birth to a whole load of shit – Jesus, that was a disturbing metaphor.

"Come on," Tachibana prompted, helping him up and ignoring how the words made him flinch and tense his shoulders "Let's go outside for a little while – the fresh air'll do you some good, and it's a lovely day. I can help you get dressed if you like, it's not a good idea to move your hand too much right now."

The older man wiped away the tears on Kyoya's face so gently, it was like he was twelve again and sobbing because he didn't really have any friends. Because Kuze left and took Kanan with him.

"Do I have to? I just want to go sleep…" He tried to excuse. He must have looked completely pathetic, crying his dusty heart out with snot dripping from his nose because tears weren't beautiful, and they certainly weren't blue.

Of course, Tachibana didn't take no for an answer, saying that it was unhealthy for him to just stay in his room. If he really needed to, he could nap in the garden; that was the only compromise he was willing to meet. So, dressed in a soft t-shirt and some sweatpants that were loose on his hips – looking more and more like a psychiatric patient as the hours went by, it seemed – he was all but dragged into the garden.

The sunlight was warm on his skin, but it hurt his eyes. He'd been cooped up a little too long, used to washed out colours and darkness, but everything was… bright. Yellows and greens and pinks and reds dragged along the canvas in a beautiful symphony of colour. It wasn't grey. He actually stopped for a moment. He was able to smell the flowers' scent on the breeze, and the freshly cut grass.

Somewhere in his mind, something grinned sadistically and just seemed to whisper _Maybe pain is how to fix yourself this time; you don't need him_. It wasn't a voice, and he wasn't _insane_ , but it felt so… accurate. He'd focused on that feeling, he'd cried his tears, and he felt a bit better. But he wasn't some sort of _menhera_ , or some pathetic cutter. He went through a phase in middle school, everyone has something like that they regret. Whereas some may be otakus, he just… hurt himself a little.

God, denial really did run deep.

"Kyoya, are you alright?" Hotta asked, breaking him out of his trance, his face the picture of a concerned parent. It was touching. It was _touching_ , he could feel it. Numb, but there! Maybe… This was something that could help? He flexed his hand under the bandage, gritting his teeth against a hiss as the sore flesh pulled. Not all the time, of course. He wasn't insane, and he wasn't a masochist… Well, not _really_. It was just… It worked!

No. No, even he wasn't that deep in denial, that willing to ignore this problem.

"I'm fine… It's warm today," He inwardly cringed at how _stupid_ that sounded, but it seemed to appease his bodyguards. They just gave him smiles, ushering him out and sat with him on the ground, grass stains on their clothes. He had to sit because, despite this reprieve, he was still tired and a little too dizzy.

There, siting in the grass with the sun shining on his pale, drawn face… He felt like he could be okay.

Please, God, let him get better.


	5. Purple

Things were never perfect for him, of course, so it wasn't much of a surprise that he crashed the next day; spirit in a bloodied, crumpled mess that was starting to rot. That basically summed up how he felt in that moment. He was less dizzy, managing to eat more of his dinner than he had in weeks, but he just felt nauseous and slow. Just… tired.

Those thoughts were pesky also, refusing to leave him alone. They were violent, intrusive, and left him shaky and… scared. What if he actually did something? He had painkillers and sleeping pills in his ensuite, there was strong rope in the garden shed, he had a million and one leather belts. Even Hotta shaved with a fucking straight razor, which would be more than easy to take to his arms or throat.

This was messed up. He was messed up, and he didn't understand because he shouldn't want to die. It didn't make sense. He wasn't happy, but life was good.

He was failing his classes, becoming a smear of dirt on the Ootori name.

But it was fine! He'd get better, he'd drag his grades out of the gutter, and he'd ask if he could redo any work that did go towards his final grade; it was still fixable. Besides, it wasn't like a couple of bad grades were enough to commit suicide over. You get one life, and then it's whatever lies after – if anything does.

Briefly, he remembers when he was a child and he put on his choir uniform every Sunday, believed in God and heaven and ran fast enough so the devil couldn't catch him. It's not like his father was religious, more that it was something that his British grandmother did. It was simply a tradition, and grandmother was the nice one, not like his grandfather; his father always looked so… scared around the man. Well, as scared as he ever looked, he supposed. But he digressed, this wasn't a discussion on parental failings, it was deciding whether suicide was even worth it.

He was a burden. That was a good reason.

Japan's attitude towards suicide had a certain duality; it was taboo, and frowned upon, unless the person recognised they were a burden. Then, it was seen as the right thing to do. Granted, it was an extremely old attitude to have, times changed, but… He was a burden. He was nothing but a child his mother and father had conceived by accident, and someone without a place. You could argue he had one in the host club, but… Not anymore. He didn't do anything. He… He was nothing but a burden, with this thing in his head.

Maybe before that, too. Maybe he always was one. In that case… Maybe…

He wandered through the school day in silence, pondering his usefulness and, essentially… Whether he deserved to live. It wasn't like he was truly living, anyway; he felt pretty dead inside. Nothing but a hollow shell with a quiet voice and a forced, absent smile. It'd be like… deleting an unwanted file on his laptop; no one mourned it, after all.

Maybe he was oversimplifying this. After all, it's not as if he should commit suicide, because he shouldn't take it so lightly. If he made it that impersonal, then he was actually going to do it. He was going to kill himself. That's it, game over. It wasn't like he believed in the bible anymore, but it certainly wouldn't be heaven waiting on the other side.

"Hey," A heavy hand came down on his shoulder and he practically jumped out of his skin, the room swaying for a second before the three Tamaki's in front of him merged into one once more. Some minor dehydration, malnutrition, that was all, "You look tired, and I can tell you haven't been focussing today… Go take a nap in the back."

And thus, he was sent away. A childish thought to have, but it just kept jabbing at him. After all, he thought that he, Kuze and Kanan got along like a house on fire until they both up and left him; their parting gift the realisation that he had no real friends, and that he was swimming with leeches. In a cruel twist of irony, now he was the leech among the swimmers.

It's depressingly hilarious how life turns out sometimes.

He stood, feet unsteady for half a second until he digs his heels in, forcing himself to move towards the back room and the plush couch within.

"Oh, and Kyoya," Tamaki calls at his back, and he turns around like the obedient little love-struck puppy he used to be – and, sometimes, still is, "You know… You can tell me if anything's wrong. You're just… You're so pale, and thin… Well, even more so than you usually are. You'd tell me if… If…"

If you were dying.

The words hang in the air, almost physically tangible, and Kyoya has to consider his answer. Is he dying? The answer Tamaki wants to hear is no… Or is it? No, Tamaki wants him alive. Tamaki loves him, even if it's not like that. Tamaki would never want him dead. However… The answer is looking more and more like a yes as the hours tick passed, and he doesn't want to lie. He's sick of lying.

"Come on, spit it out," He says instead, and Tamaki looks like a fish with the way his mouth is opening and closing, until Kyoya gets his desired outcome for the first time in what feels like forever.

"Nothing… Nevermind," Tamaki waved away, visibly deflated. Despite the nagging guilt Kyoya felt… relieved. You could say that he dodged the proverbial bullet, but it feels more apt to say he side-stepped straight into its path.

He just went to the back room, painfully obedient, and dropped down onto the spare sofa that resided there. It was still good, but there was a small tear in the seam that needed to be stitched up; the slightest flaw relegating it to be hidden away. Wasn't that a cheery observation to overthink completely?

He more fell to the side than anything else, eyes closing and still despite the sloppy sprawl he was currently laying in. He didn't even move to loosen his tie. He just wanted to sleep, really. If he was asleep, then he wasn't overthinking every little thing…

He didn't know how long it'd been when he heard the door creak open, groggily blinking his eyes open once more to be faced with Kaoru, a look of worry etched on the redhead's features. There was a pause when their eyes met, something tangible but indistinguishable in the air. Really, he just wanted to go back to sleep, but there was something in the way Kaoru shifted his weight from foot to foot; something awkward, which meant this was probably important. Besides, he liked Kaoru's company; it just so happened that there wasn't much to be had recently.

Breaking the near-trance, Kaoru walked over and perched on the edge of the sofa, right next to Kyoya. He bit his lip, and Kyoya was nothing but patient in waiting for the opening statement – both out of politeness and procrastination. He didn't really want to talk about anything heavy, not now, but he would. Kyoya Ootori, despite what seemed to be popular opinion, was not selfish.

"So…" Kaoru began, voice soft and tentative, "I just wanted to apologise. I guess I've kinda been avoiding you lately? Not on purpose, but yeah… I shouldn't have done that. You're sick, and I was just being selfish; it's disturbing and upsetting to see you like this."

Kyoya just blinked up at him, groggy mind fumbling as he tried to process the feelings of hurt, rejection, and general confusion at the fact he hadn't even realised. Still, there was gratefulness. Gratefulness that, if Kaoru was apologising, then they could spend more time together. Tamaki might've been his best friend, but there was just something about Kaoru that made him feel… warm. Like he was laying somewhere quiet, intimate, the sun shining on his face and lush grass against his skin.

"Can you… say something?" Kaoru prompted, laughing nervously, "You're a good friend, Kyoya; I don't want to lose you because I did something stupid."

"It's fine," He answered, too faint but immediate, "I… I have been sick, for a while now. I don't know if I'll be _well_ again. It feels like I'll never get better. It feels like it's been years, but they passed by in a few hours. I'm a mess right now."

That was another thing, telling the truth. More than that, spilling his guts. His tongue was looser, his mask thinner, and he felt afraid but not at the same time. It wasn't the full truth, not the admission of what said _sickness_ was; no mention of **depression**. It was three words; _Kaoru, I'm depressed_. But he couldn't say it. He couldn't be a _useless Menhera_ , like her. He was too much like his mother to begin with, he didn't need to hear that as well. He just stared at the waistcoat Kaoru was wearing, a lovely, rich purple, and tried to dissociate from those feelings.

"Then I'll be here for you… We all are, y'know," Kaoru breathed, hand raking through Kyoya's hair, "Jeez… When was the last time you took a shower? Your hair's greasy, but it's like you just dumped a load of dry shampoo in it…"

"I've been too tired," He sighed, cheeks burning as he screwed his eyes shut, "I can barely brush my teeth sometimes… My homework's incomplete, late, and just plain awful. I don't know how to get the motivation for anything I used to do… It's pathetic."

"No… You're sick, I… I was rude," Kaoru sighed, hand still stroking through his disgusting hair, "It's not healthy, you should at least try and take care of yourself, but I get it. You're always falling asleep, so I guess it makes sense."

 _Yuuichi worked himself to the point of fainting, Akito had a temper, Fuyumi was a doormat, his father was too stern and too close to giving up, and his mother was sick. What was going to be his fate? Was he going to be miserable when he grew up?_

He was. He had no right to be, but he'd fallen, and that diamond mask turned out to be nothing but glass, shattering and cutting him to ribbons in the process. No one ever saw the scars, both metaphorical and _real_ , because he didn't let them. Kyoya Ootori was strong. He wasn't little Kyo-chan anymore, who cried because he didn't have any real friends.

He was Ootori-san. He overworked himself until dizzy, got angry over stupid – _reasonable_ – things, was wrapped around Tamaki's little finger, too stern and commanding of his friends…

And he was going to kill himself.

The realisation made it hard to breathe, but he didn't let on. He pulled together what shreds of his mask remained and acted the part of himself once more. It wasn't completely convincing, not by his own standards, but it was passible, and he found that he didn't care so much about perfection anymore.

"Maybe you should get back to the club, the girls will surely miss you," He suggested, closing his eyes once more and placing his head back on the under-stuffed cushion. He focussed on his breathing, feeling as if he was submerged underwater as he tried to keep it slow. As Akito said, all those years ago, they had to be normal to counterbalance it all. Besides… He didn't want Kaoru to see him like that. To see the blood pouring from him along with the colour.

"Right…" Kaoru breathes out, unsure but with a taint of relief, and the hand leaves his hair. The pressure at his side elevates, he has more room to not breathe, and he hears footsteps, "See you, Senpai; I'm here if you need me."

With that, the door closes, and he can't remember when it was ever truly open to him. He just lets himself breakdown, breaths too fast and too shallow, the oxygen refusing to enter his lungs. He's choking on air, like he did as a child, feeling like the walls of the small room are closing in and crushing him. Really, it's realisation. The realisation that he has power over his own life; successes and failures, but also its span.

He could die right now, if he wanted to. Some part of him does.

Tears that are clear – still not blue – and salty ran down from his eyes, and he bit on his hand to try and muffle his hyperventilated sobbing. It was alright, he was safe, he was fine; but he wasn't. He did this to himself, and that was a crushing thought. He had the power to die just as he had the power to live, but he couldn't do that to his friends; he couldn't leave them alone.

Because isn't that how this started, being left alone?

* * *

Of course, he had to go home eventually. All he could really do was try to hide his face as he bolted from the room, down to the car and all but fell into the back seat. It was completely without grace, but who really cared? The act was unusual, would be questioned tomorrow, but he didn't want them to see that he'd been crying. Irrational, but it felt like he had to. Like if he ran, he'd be safe, when in reality it was different; all it did was make his head spin.

"Master Kyoya?" Tachibana questioned, peering at him through the rear-view mirror. He didn't raise his head, keeping his gaze aimed at the floor, silent as to not let his voice give it all away. True to form, after a few moments of silence, he heard the rustle of Tachibana's usual newspaper as he folded it and placed it on the front seat. The car started, and that was that, no instruction needed.

After all, why would Tachibana need instruction? The man was more of a father to him than his own was, after all; nuances were all he needed. He was a good man, and one of the things that kept Kyoya rooted to this life like an anchor; something he was both grateful and frustrated with him for. If he could leave, waltz out the door into… anything else, he would. However, there was Tachibana, Hotta and Aijima there at the door, stopping him without even realising it.

"Kyoya?"

That second inquiry, barely able to be heard over the rumble of the engine, was enough to get him to at least look up a little. Any other time, he'd tell Tachibana to keep his eyes on the road, but right now… He could barely form the words.

"Are you alright? You're shaking…" Tachibana observed, their eyes meeting in the reflection. There was concern, and a little fear, and a small half-sob managed to escape him, "You've been crying…"

"I'm sorry," He murmured, so small and scared, "I… I'm not alright. I don't think I'll ever b-be alright. I… I'm breaking, I… Bana…"

He was so close to breaking down, so close to sobbing his heart out once more, despite the pounding in his head. Crying hurt, talking hurt, _living hurt_. It was all pain after pain, and he had to question what it was all for. He had no will and no motivation, he was nothing but an empty shadow drifting through his life, and it was all so distant to him. Why try? Why should he keep floundering when all he wanted to do was let himself drown, too tired of fighting the current pulling him down?

"Hang on," Tachibana intoned so gently, pulling the car over to the side of the road and parking up. The door opened, pushed closed without much force, as if the noise would just shatter him more than he already was. Tachibana could see the blood, could see the wounds, and it was all laid painfully bare.

His own door opened, and a strong hand rested on his bony shoulder, concern coming off his dear bodyguard in waves. "Please, Kyoya… Tell me what's wrong. Why are you crying?" He murmured, and Kyoya just gave an awfully wet, ugly sniffle in response. It was just them, gentle circles rubbed along his shoulder in an effort to soothe him, and the truth just… spilled.

"I want to die," He stated, thick and frenzied and so horribly truthful, "I want to die, I've had enough, I want to just stop breathing… I-I can't handle it, Bana. I can't do it anymore. I want to die… I… Help me… Help…"

Tachibana's strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him into a desperation-tainted hug, and it was like he was a little boy again. Back when he sobbed because he fell off the swings and scrapped up his hands, not because he wanted to commit suicide. Back before he knew a person _could_ want to die, before his mother got really bad.

"You're alright… You're here… Breathe, Kyo, breathe…" The older man repeated, over and over, like he was reciting a mantra. He swore he could hear the other man crying, and that guilt lodged itself in his chest again, and he thought he'd die right then and there.

Because he wasn't alright. Kyoya Ootori had never been alright.


	6. Pink

Kyoya had stopped crying by the time Tachibana pulled into the Ootori estate's driveway, eyes sore and his breathing still a little shaky, but a weight was taken off his shoulders. Tachibana knew, and he cared. He cried alongside him, tried to reassure him, and it was… a little more comforting. He felt guilty for making the man cry, but it felt like a safety net; Tachibana would never let him leave.

Still, it wasn't enough to fix him. He knew that, really, but he seemed to put his hope in stupid, nonsensical things when things got bad; and this was the worst they'd ever been. Still, some odd sense of melancholy calm was over him; an overture for the colour, perhaps? A step towards wellness, where the grey would be ignored once more, and he'd be happy.

It was a complete denial of responsibility, putting himself in the older man's capable hands, but perhaps he could do what everyone kept saying… Going to a doctor. Still, he didn't want pills, and he knew he wouldn't take them. Side effects, some of the stories he'd heard, his own mother… That, and it was something that would either confirm or deny his mental illness; both were horrifying. Confirmation was scary, because it made this **thing** all too real, but being told that he wasn't depressed… It'd be the revelation that he'd been self-sabotaging this whole time, that he'd just peaked, and this was how he _really was_.

There was no point launching himself into that now, only just getting his feet back on the ground once more. He couldn't do it, not again; he'd be sick if he panicked anymore, nose bleeding from the pressure in his head, his eyes pouring from their sockets as he cried them out. He knew that last one was impossible, of course, but the image didn't leave him alone. All he could do was curl up into a ball, feet on the luxury upholstery like he'd been told off for a million times, hands pulling at his hair in some attempt to ground himself.

A gentle stop, door open and closed, gravel under fairly expensive shoes, his door opening. All those sounds were real, it was all real. He should stay in the here and now, with Tachibana worriedly saying his name and gently easing the clutch he had on his hair. Looking up at him was slow, painfully _slow_ , but aided by the gentle stroked Tachibana's large, calloused hand made through the black, greasy strands.

"If you're up to it, you should have a shower when you get in," He suggested, an option rather than a commandment, and Kyoya had to stop himself from crying again. It was all too emotional, too soft, too perfect, "It's alright if you… don't want to be alone. I'm here Kyoya, we're all here; Hotta, Aijima and I, your brothers and sister, your father… We all love you, and we don't want you to hurt yourself, alright? We want you here."

Tachibana helped him out of the car, his knees feeling a little too weak to work properly in that moment, just in time to see something that sunk like a stone in his gut.

"Come on, are you kicking me out so soon, Yoyo-chan? So _mean_ ," His mother whined as his father tried to get her out of the door, her hair mussed and clothes rumpled. Unfortunately, over the years they'd been divorced, this was something of a common phenomenon. His mother would travel for months at a time, come back, and if her toyboy of the moment didn't give her enough attention, it was a quick trip back to the Ootori estate for an equally quick fuck. He was basically desensitised to this shit, in the sense that his parents having sex didn't disgust him as much as the average child.

It just made him upset and angry.

"Come on, Kyoka; Kyoya will be home any minute, and he's –"

"Right in front of you," Kyoya interrupted his father, his expression grave as the two adults turned to him slowly. His mother's pink lipstick was clearly smudged around his father's face and neck – she always did wear too much of the stuff – and his own appearance was just as dishevelled. If he was planning to hide it, he wasn't very convincing.

"Kyoya, baby boy," His mother cooed, shoving Yoshio away and almost making him fall on the floor. She moved just as gracefully as ever, swanning to him and cupping his cheeks, "Oh my, Kyoya; I think you're getting your father's cheekbones, you're becoming a man. I always thought your squishy cheeks were _adorable_ , though – you suit something softer."

Yet, she failed to notice how ill-fitting his clothes were, how he'd lost weight. How he looked sick and barely able to stand. He was just too tired and upset to deal with her, though; it wouldn't do to take everything she said to heart, but he would, because it wasn't something that was really his choice anymore.

His hands balled into fists at his sides, clenching his teeth so hard that he feared his teeth would shatter. He just couldn't swallowed his anger down, like he always did. He just couldn't keep doing it, he was too exposed and raw and _real_. It was too crushing, like when Yuuichi had to explain that, just because he walked in on his parents having sex, didn't mean they were getting back together. He'd yelled, called him a liar, and stormed off only for his brother to be proved correct.

He was done, and he was upset. Of all the times his mother came around for _a little attention_ , it had to be **today**.

"Get off," He nearly growled, voice low, and she let go of him in shock. His mother was used to her _baby boy_ , the one who'd follow her around like a puppy and ask about her latest trip, acting more like a _bestie_ than her son as she gossiped about the men – and women – who were so _generous_. Generously endowed, too; she never had a filter when it came to that. It was like she didn't even know how to act around a child, and she probably didn't with how little time she'd spent around him.

He was sick of it. He was really, really sick of this entire situation.

"Kyoya," His father began, hand reaching out to him as he tried to stride passed, but he just side stepped the small act of affection and worry. He was obviously worried, Kyoya wasn't acting like himself, and he knew it, "Kyoya, come here. It's not my fault –"

"Did she rape you, then?" He asked, interrupting and jarringly blunt. He couldn't stand it when that line always seemed to come up. He didn't care about seeming like his polished perfect self, that illusion was long gone, rusting in dusty darkness, "If she held you down, father, then we should go to the police."

"N-no, of course not!" Yoshio bristled, shock written across every line of his face.

"Then it's your fault too, don't pretend otherwise," He snapped, turning to look at his mother. That strapless, all too tight dress was something that would have every man at the event cast their eyes over her curves, admit to themselves that while she was tall and loud, and all those things Japan found unattractive, they _wanted her_. Hemlines at midthigh, like a teenager, necklines low and revealing, face full of Botox and the latest makeup trends.

It was like a pretence had been stripped away, like he really was seeing her for the first time, and he just let himself speak, "Just because mother dresses like a whore doesn't mean you have to fuck her like one."

"Kyoya!" Tachibana scolded, looking scandalised and just a bit angry despite how red his eyes still were from crying, "How dare you speak like that! It's not -"

"Not like me? How the actual fuck would any of you know that?!" He yelled, snarling, but his eyes were still burning though there were no more tears left to cry, "I don't care! I hate you! I always have to be _perfect_ , do you know how stressful that is?! Yet _she_ gets a free pass! Why?! If she gets one because she's sick, then I should too! But _no_ , I still have to act like I'm okay!"

"Baby boy… What's wrong? What happened?" His mother asked, voice as faint as it was on the days where she wouldn't leave her room, shaking herself from her dumbfounded state for a moment.

"Your _baby boy_ is dead and rotting," He spat, looking at her with seventeen years' worth of buried contempt, "So just go. Unless you're trying to get him to give you another round; in which case, just try and be fucking quiet for once."

Kyoya made his way upstairs, his mother, his father and Tachibana staring at him in utter shock for a long moment. He was almost away when Tachibana ran after him, taking the stairs two at a time, snatching his wrist as soon as he was close enough.

"Get off me!" He seethed, head whipping around to glare at his bodyguard, "You're always… _there_ , and I've had enough! I'm not a child! Just leave me alone!"

"But Kyoya, I can't –"

"Please," He whisper was broken, his voice shaking and thick, "Please, I just… I can't… I need to be alone…"

He was let go. He walked to his room, locked the door behind him, and sank to the floor.

He broke down.


	7. Red

The steam from the shower clouded the bathroom as Kyoya stood under the spray, hissing slightly every now and then, his skin burned bright red from the heat. He'd just turned it straight up to ten without thinking, the act of just scorching his skin to feel _something_ so ingrained that, at some point, it became something he just did automatically.

Usually, it dragged him out from under the murky water that swallowed him up some time ago, let him take a few breaths before he was submerged once more, but now… It was muted. It wasn't bringing him back, his skin itched for something sharper, more real. Hot water wouldn't cut it, scratching wouldn't cut it, he needed something _more_. He needed something to shock him out of it.

In some attempt to avoid adding more scars to his legs, to prove to himself that he wasn't some sort of freak who needed pain to survive this, he turned the shower right down. Freezing water pelted his back, and he gasped at the shock of the sensation, gritting his teeth against it before turning the temperature back up to scorching. The shock was enough to throw off some cobwebs, drag him to the near-surface, but his skin still itched for _more_.

This was ridiculous. God, he was such an _idiot_ for even thinking about it. It was _her thing_ to paint the bathroom red with her blood, not his. He went through a rough time in middle school, _that was it_. It meant _nothing_. He wasn't like that, and his obvious bid for pitying attention had gone on long enough. He was a fuck up, and an accident, but everyone _knew that_ , so what right did he have to act like this? Absolutely none!

He would never do that to his father. He swore so, all those years ago, as his commanding and stern father broke down into sobs as he told his youngest child that they might have to say goodbye to his mother for the last time. He'd cried too but he was a crybaby. Still was, really; not much changes.

He picked up the razor on the side of the bathtub with shaking fingers, shaking breath, shaking everything. He wasn't really going to, was he? Just… Things were different; they were different, they were different, they were _different_.

That didn't stop him from attempting to force the blades from the plastic, grunting a little in upset frustration, a few cracks sounding beneath the sound of the shower. It was difficult, more so than he remembered it being, but he didn't remember what he actually used the first time; he thought it was a razor, but Tachibana informed him worriedly that it was a knife from the kitchen. He didn't know, why didn't he know, and why wouldn't the plastic just give way already?

He couldn't get it. His weak digits strained against the plastic casing, skin turning white and red with the force he tried to put on it. Still, his lack of energy and the meals he barely picked at seemed to have taken a toll on him, and he just couldn't summon the strength to actually break it.

He sobbed in frustration, trying _so hard_ to just get at the thin sliver of metal that he could feel pinpricks across his fingers as he accidentally cut them up. It was pain, but it wasn't what he _wanted_ ; there was actually a difference between slicing your fingers without meaning to and fucking up your thighs because nothing else was going to help. He only did it once, but still. It was a tangible difference.

He gave up but didn't put the razor back. He didn't get back up to go find Tachibana and get help. He all but ground the blades against his skin, trying to get the scratches to just fucking _bleed_. He scratched at them also, trying to almost pick the skin apart with his nails, hoping that it would at least do something to hurt him.

Because… He was just like his mother. Some stupid menhera who needed to hurt.

"Fuck…" He swore softly, the quietest thing in the too silent bathroom. He was going to do this. He was actually going to do this, because he was shifting so that he was sitting down, those few scars and the red abrasions seemed stark against his pale – _so, so sickly pale…_ – skin. It was accusatory, he swore it was, which was just so fucking insane and maybe he really _was_ crazy. Guilt was tearing at him, and suddenly, he was fourteen all over again, crying in the bathroom and cutting himself because he had no friends.

It was all so pathetic. It wasn't like _him_ , but what was he even _like_ anymore? This was his new norm, and all he wanted to do was claw and cut his skin away. Maybe then he could make himself into something new, something better.

Get the straightjacket, he's gone now!

He pushed the blades against the skin of his thigh, as hard as he could, before dragging it across. God, it stung. He was choking back tears again, but this was the _point_ , it was meant to _hurt_ , he shouldn't be _crying_.

It wasn't like it was in that Netflix garbage Akito had put on one night. It wasn't a red river that ran into the bathtub, as if it could slowly fill to the brim and he could push his head under and breathe, and breathe, until he never breathed again. He couldn't drown himself in his own blood, platelets knitting in his throat and lungs. No, it was stupid, insignificant little scratches, the occasional beads of blood that running down his thigh like raindrops on a window pane.

It wasn't working as well as he thought it would've. It hurt, and there was blood, but there was nothing cathartic about it. There was no adequate feeling off… atonement, he supposed? Relief, at least. God, this was all so messed up, and he was sitting in the shower with small drops of blood falling from his skinny legs and into the water. His backside hurt because his own _bones_ were pressing uncomfortably against his skin. He was a wreck, from his appearance to his grades.

He probably did use a knife last time, judging from how those cuts had bled and bled, scaring the ever-loving fuck out of him as he frantically pressed blood-saturated toilet paper against the wounds. But it just… wasn't helping. It wasn't helping, and everything was getting more frantic because he couldn't even _cut right_.

It was then the thought hit him, making what little that was in his stomach roll uncomfortably. **Burning**. That was the sensation that always seemed to snap him out of it; hot tea, hot water. But the shower wasn't enough. Water and tea didn't cut it anymore, he needed something more to cut through the dreary haze. Something burning bright…

 _My father has a lighter… Bottom desk draw in the office…_ A sick thought whispered. He really was losing it, hissing as some water from the shower dripped off his face and straight onto one of the "cuts". His fingers wound in his hair, and he tugged, trying to inch himself back from the line part of him wanted to cross, dragging him along as if he were some sort of doll in a child's hands. But still, he rose mechanically, turned off the shower, and threw on his dressing gown without drying himself off first.

It wasn't a comfortable walk down to his father's office. The dampness of his skin made the dressing gown cling to him uncomfortably, and there was water running down the back of his neck from his slightly-too-long hair. That, and there was the anxiety that always pricks at you when you're about to do something you know is wrong. Stealing his father's lighter was one thing, but using it to self-harm… He felt like he was going to vomit, not that there was much to lose in the first place.

But there was also the realisation that the itch under his skin wouldn't go away; not with tea, not with water, and not with the crappy razor. It might not be a good thing to self-harm, but… Wasn't that better than death? If he could survive, it'd be fine. It would all be fine because, hey, it's supposed to get better. It did before.

And then it got worse than ever before.

He shook the thought away, slowly pushing the door to his father's office, peering inside. It was empty, but he wasn't sure how long it'd stay that way… If he was quick, then it'd be fine; it was his house as well, he wasn't prohibited from leaving his room - quite the opposite, with Tachibana involved. His dressing gown even had pockets, he could slip the lighter in there, right?

He really, really hated this.

He slipped inside, knelt down by his father's desk, and opened the draw. Sure enough, the little silver lighter glinted at him in the low light, almost inviting. He just snatched it up and shoved his hands in his pockets, walking back to his room as quick as he could, surely looking suspicious.

Once he managed to get back to his room, after what felt like eons, still twitching slightly as he let himself slide onto the floor, back pressed against the door. He just… stared at the lighter for a while, heart beating too wildly in his throat as he tried to swallow it back down before he choked. It felt like he couldn't, shattered fragments and sharp shards lodging there, lungs unable to draw breath because of the obstruction.

More of the shower water dripped down, and he had to wonder for a minute why it was salty on his tongue. Odd. Because he really wasn't crying, he wasn't. Of course, in the past, that's what he'd always say in response to Akito's huffed "crybaby", even when snot and tears were very clearly streaked across his blotchy skin, as obvious as blue ink.

He opened the lighter, the small _click_ seeming to echo around the too-large, too-empty room, piercing into his ears until the drum ruptured and left them bleeding, and him deaf. If only, sometimes; like the common phenomenon of his mother and father's moans, grating across him like nails on a chalk board as he shoulders his school bag and soldiers past to his room.

Was he really going to do this? Even as the water that was certainly not tears fell, he knew the answer in some odd feeling of calm. Everything seemed to quiet but that one impulse, and he sparked the flame to life, staring at it for a moment and burning faded colours behind his eyelids. It wasn't something quick. The process was torturously slow, in fact, but still.

The flame licked at his sickly pale skin, and he let out a shrill yelp in response, arm instinctively jerking away. It was blistering. The mark was angry and red, and there was a dull spark somewhere in his head. Pain is… something. Blistering, burning, fixate on those feelings and ignore the ones that tell you to jump, to hang, to take all of those lovely little sleeping pills a once, as if they were some sort of delicious candy. Focus on that spark, don't think of yourself as dead or on some horrific spiral you can't control until you inevitably fall from that mortal coil.

All he wanted was to be happy… Was it too much to ask for?

Hand going to his mouth, teeth clamping down on _unmarred_ skin, trying to muffle the cries and yelps he made, he brought the lighter to his skin once more. He forcibly held it there, doing all that he could to stop himself from being a whiny little brat who was just being an attention seeker. Everything he could to spark that something behind his eyes to life once more. He took it away once more, his leg shaking a little from the shock, the reddened irritation and the red and off-white burn just seeming to scream at him " _look how fucked up you are!_ "

Shit, he was such a mess. He was sitting on his bedroom floor, sobbing his heart out from the sheer frustration and _pain_ of it all, self-harming with his father's lighter that he stole. Honestly, back when he was fourteen and stupid, he put the image of the cool type lighting up a cigarette to smoke as he hurt himself, smouldering end pressed to his skin and a stoic look on his face, on a pedestal. He didn't idolise it, didn't want to be like that, but he always thought that, if he fell onto that shameful coping mechanism, he'd do it with some twisted form of dignity.

Instead, he cut himself in the shower because he had no friends, and now he was burning himself with a stolen lighter because he was a useless spare. He was so, painfully pathetic.

 **You should just die.**

Dying. That'd been on his mind so much, too much, and he knew he shouldn't but at the same time… it was enticing. Burning hurt, and there were only a few sparks. He could just… get it over with. He could slip into a peaceful rest, after only a little more pain. As far as he knew, there wasn't such a thing as a painless suicide. Still, resting was something you had to earn, so eternal rest would follow the same principal.

He bit his hand as he brought the lighter to his thigh again, and again, pressing the hot metal against it hard and rough, tears flowing as if his body was trying to put out the flame. Get it out of his head, get it out of his head! It was too much! It was all too much and he was cracking, crumbling, screaming silently and all too loud but everyone just stood there. Bystander effect - don't do a thing, because someone else will do it. It's not my job, someone else would do it!

 _How would they feel, seeing that you hung yourself? Pretty guilty. Not that you deserve the sympathy, but it could inspire them to be more proactive, to help someone actually worthy of it. Besides… This hurts too much. Doesn't it?_

He shook his head, lungs filling with thoughts and unspoken words and every "I'm okay" that was similarly not believed but ignored.

 _Die_.

He couldn't. He couldn't, could he? He was skinny and weak, he couldn't let his mind crack and splinter like this, skipping passed all the lines drawn in chalk and straight into the cold ocean, blood streaked against the rocks below. Could he die?

 _You want it_.

He did.

 _Everyone would be better off._

They would.

 _No one will remember you as anything other than a cold-hearted bastard_.

True.

 _Do them a favour_.

He closed the lighter, flame snuffed out, and dropped to the floor as he struggled to his feet. He had to use the door to push himself up, leg smarting like all hell, and he hobbled over to his draws. He didn't need beams, or rope. Just a belt.

He closed his hand around the leather so tightly, he swore it burned. It was sickeningly pleasant, but then again, he always felt better with a plan in mind.

* * *

 **My Ko-fi: /J3J0FT23**


	8. Black

When people talk about the calm before the storm, this isn't what they usually envision; but the metaphor is still applicable. However, the peace he felt might not be followed by a storm. It was more like the ocean pulling an unresponsive body down into its depths, limbs swallowed by water and flesh picked apart. Something violent yet gentle, ebbing away without a single witness.

He actually liked that image of slowly sinking down to the sea floor, laying in the sand and being scavenged by the creatures down there, contributing to that famed circle life goes in. You're born, you consume, and then you die and get consumed yourself. There's something karmic about it. Even if not everyone gets what they deserve in life - good or bad - we all have that similar end; not with a bang but fizzling out as something wholly unimportant in the grand scheme of things.

Such would be the fate of Kyoya Ootori. His friends and family might shed a tear, might morn the empty husk of a boy that had died long before he stopped breathing, but they'd move on. They'd heal in a way he couldn't. He'd become a distant memory, a rotten, fruitless branch of his family tree only existing in some half-interesting stories and the photographs in dusty albums that wouldn't see the light of day again.

At first, it might be too painful to look over pictures of that chubby boy with big, sparkling eyes, but then it would fade but the photos would stay hidden. What was the point of talking about the skinny boy in the room down the hall, to the left, who withered away as he collected dust? There's no point. There's no moral to the story, except perhaps that some people are just forced to be miserable their whole lives, whether it be by circumstance, genetics or just chance, and they often don't live that long.

His fingers clenched against the cool leather, breathing hard but not dangerously so. There was one question, one he wanted answered; how long would Kiyomi and Daisuke remember him? His darling niece and nephew had seen him less and less, Fuyumi often texting that they missed their uncle Kyo, but… He didn't have the energy, didn't want them to see him in this state… It wasn't like he wanted them to know that their uncle wasn't the fun, happy person they thought he was, nor did he want them to live with the fact that Kyoya was so weak as to hang himself.

Disregarding the guilt laying in his gut like lead lining his intestines, he took agonisingly slow, hard steps towards his desk chair, dragging it towards the closet doors. The squeak the wheels made was harsh, the hair on his arms and the back of his neck standing on edge. It was like nails on a chalkboard, and he had to wonder how the maids hadn't noticed.

Or maybe it was the knowledge that, in a moment, he wouldn't have to feel anything ever again. Everything seemed to be too loud, too bright, too much in general. Eternal rest, they called it that for a reason. He didn't want to be viewed as some sort of martyr, that was the opposite of what it should be; he was sick and died. You don't see those who bravely fight their illness get the praise and adulation that someone like him gets in the eyes of the media. People just assume life is enough, so beyond their family and friends, most people are never any the wiser that they existed.

One foot on the chair, feeling something akin to what someone feels as they await the gallows. That was pretty much what it was, he supposed; hung for his crime of… existing. He looped the belt through its buckle, tightening the makeshift, leather noose around his thin neck and closing the end in the closet door. He tugged it a few times, making sure that it was stuck, not wanting it to come undone and drop him to the ground, alive.

He couldn't quite seem to catch his breath, despite his mind being clearer than it had been for months. He was apprehensive, wanting to just... get it over with, but finding it hard to just kick the chair out from under him. It would be so abrupt. Or, worse, it wouldn't be quick; a painful, drawn-out choking and spluttering, his lips turning blue and brain cells dying as they were starved of oxygen. Not pleasant, pain is escapist, but not in this context; the body never accepts something when it would actually be useful.

He had to think; how to break his neck? If he did it right, he'd die immediately and mostly painlessly, and that was what he honestly preferred the thought of. He didn't want to asphyxiate himself. Still, if he did... He supposed a death was a death, but he'd still rather it be a less painful affair.

Time was up. All he had to do was kick the chair, fall heavily. That should do the job. He took a breath, closing his eyes and listening to the sound of the birds outside. A lovely, peaceful soundtrack to the moment that helped keep his calm. The world might've been beautiful, but it obviously wasn't for him.

It was like it was now; hearing the birds but being shut inside a dark room, curtains drawn. He could be exposed to a sliver of the nice things but could never seem to fully experience it. Or maybe he did and just didn't appreciate it. What a waste of a life, a squandered sack of flesh, blood and organs that would be better received by others. He couldn't do anyone any good by living, but maybe dying was the way. Strip him down to only his parts and let someone have the life he never wanted.

Swallowing all of the creeping hesitancy, he finally kicked the chair out from beneath his feet. The fall was fast, especially compared to the minutes before that passed with all the haste of several years. It was the sudden stop at the end, however, that proved he'd made an error in his spontaneous, half-baked "plan".

His neck didn't break.

All of the pressure went straight on his larynx, resulting in some awful, strained choking. His feet kicked and flailed, failing to get purchase on the ground, a few inches away. This was it. He was going to die painfully. His hands clawed at his neck, the skin around the belt a vivid red, like the patch of blood soaking through his trousers.

Everything was fading, though. It was still an end, even if it was a painful one. His vision darkened, hearing going in and out of clarity. He was going to die, to rest, and he would never have to open his eyes and suffer through another day again. It was going to be calm.

Distantly, he heard the door open, but nothing was quite working right; the clock skipping forwards and backwards and stopping completely, his head feeling as if it had already come apart from his shoulders. It was confusing, and he was so tired...

His father's face was in his line of sight then, the pressure had, at some point, been relieved from his throat and something hard was behind his back. Something solid.

"Sta... th me," His dad began, muffled voice panicked and urgent, but Kyoya was far too tired to listen. Besides...

The inky blackness he now saw was so calming.


	9. White

Kaoru didn't know what to think, sitting in the cold, plastic chairs of the waiting room. No one did. He'd cried himself out a few hours ago, Hikaru was just going around in a daze; how do you compute this? How do you act after your friend tries to kill himself, and would've succeeded if his father hadn't walked in. It was a thought that was so… hard to get your head around. Had it not been for chance, Kyoya would be hanging from his closet door - a corpse.

The upperclassmen were asleep, Mori's head tilted so crookedly to the side that his neck looked broken, Hunny tucked into a small lump in his lap. Nothing too unusual, except for how restless the sleep looked, not peaceful at all. Then there was Tamaki, who'd also cried himself out, staring blankly at the wall, and Haruhi had her hand on his back in an attempt to keep him grounded. Still, it all felt like some alternate reality, like beyond this room was a void and nothing had ever existed. But that wasn't right.

Beyond this room was a ward. In that ward, in a private room, the most intriguing and spellbinding boy he'd ever met lay prone and pale, a tube down his throat and machines beeping. He was alive, but he looked so still it was terrifying. He looked like a sickly doll, a beautiful corpse, a painting that mourned over fallen angels and dead beauties. It was so disturbingly perfect.

"I'm fine, Tachibana, leave me alone," Ootori-san hissed for what had to be the fifth time that hour, glaring at the other man, "I need to be here. What makes you think I can go home now? What if he wakes up? He's my son, not yours."

Kaoru dragged his gaze over the two men. They were usually so put together, but after hours of waiting the image had crumbled away. Tachibana was only in his shirtsleeves, jacket, waistcoat and tie abandoned on the chair next to Hotta – who had his face in his hands. For men who were just so composed and tough, it was odd to see their eyes bloodshot and the skin around them a tender pink. Well, at first he thought it was; but they'd cared for Kyoya all his life, picked him up when he fell and protected him from any possible threat. They taught him and laughed with him, and they were all honorary fathers in a way.

And the boy they cared so deeply for tried to take his own life.

Ootori-sama's shirt was untucked from his trousers, creased and looking incredibly sloppy compared to his usual standard. His eyes were also a little pink around the edges, framed with lines and shadows that made him look almost as sick as his son. Tachibana should give up on trying to convince his employer to go eat and sleep, it wasn't going to work. Yoshio Ootori might not have been a great dad, but he was human. Unfortunately, he was a little messed up and it just clashed with Kyoya's own issues.

The less said about his mother, the better.

He sighed, leaning back and thinking on all that had transpired in the last few hours. It was mad, how life can just swerve in a new direction at a moment's notice, taking you off-guard and sending everything spinning like a car hitting a patch of black ice. It left everyone reeling, but now that Kaoru thought on it more… It wasn't out of the blue. Kyoya was obviously not okay, they just… didn't help.

The realisation lodged something uncomfortable in his chest, a small rock made of guilt that scraped his lungs when he breathed. He saw Kyoya… three hours before? Maybe four? It was almost sickening to think that he thought the other boy was fine – even if he wasn't okay – only for something like that to happen.

He didn't blame Kyoya. He'd been suffering for a while, after all; desperate people do desperate things. He blamed himself, he blamed everyone in this fucking room actually, but he was the selfish one. He didn't want to see Kyoya pained, and so he just left him. Well done, asshole. Jesus. He and Hikaru weren't that different, despite others thinking of him as the "less self-centred" twin - a pack of lies if he ever heard them.

"Right, okay, we've got food," Yuuichi sighed as he, Akito and Fuyumi re-entered the room with their armfuls of soggy sandwiches and packets of crisps. They ended up just dumping them on a nearby coffee table, clearly too tired to do much else, looking ready to just collapse any second.

"Just... Help yourself, I guess," Akito grunted, gesturing vaguely before slumping down into a chair next to his father.

It was all rather melancholy, as expected. He wouldn't want it to be jovial, it'd be jarring and out of place, not to mention thoroughly heart-breaking. The small victory of this was that Kyoya survived; but that was it. It was both the biggest silver lining and the smallest victory they could achieve. He wasn't okay, they couldn't kid themselves into thinking he was, and so they were finally forced to act like his fucking loved ones - like they should've done all along.

Yoshio's phone rang once more, and he cancelled the call with a murmur of "stupid woman" under his breath. Kaoru didn't understand why Kyoka was still trying; she wasn't going to see him anytime soon. Yoshio was angry, the bodyguards were angry, Kyoya's siblings were angry... He just found it better to not ask, even if that's what helped this shit to fester in the first place.

Hours were ticking by at the same speed as millennia, the room silent once more. It was stifling, the hands of the clock either frozen or winding backwards, all sense of time confused and swallowed under the tangible fear, concern and guilt in the room. But he couldn't leave. None of them could leave the hospital, because what then? How would they ever hope to convince Kyoya that life could be lived if they didn't even stick out the time in the sterile room.

Of course, a nurse did come, eventually. He was no longer in danger, but they were worried about the damage done to his larynx. He was still tubed, still sleeping, but he could have visitors now. Just one at a time, possibly two, they shouldn't overwhelm him. After all, there'd be enough to take in when he wakes up - diet plans, medication, the 72-hour watch - without having the room crowded.

Of course, despite Yoshio's insistence that he stay, he assured them all that it would be best for him to not be the one he woke up to. Their relationship was rocky, and he didn't want to strain him, pressure him. He just insisted that it couldn't be him, no matter if Kyoya was his child and the baby of the family. Kaoru saw where Kyoya got it from, Yoshio's thoughts seemingly spiralled behind his eyes, and overthinking was certainly an Ootori trait - both a blessing and a curse.

"If it's okay... Does anyone mind if I go?" Fuyumi piped up, hand raised so delicately, almost nervously, "I know you all want to see your friend, I just... I just…"

Her eyes were glazed, threatening to spill over, everything seeming to hit her at once. Her baby brother tried to die, that was a hard thing to even think about, and Kaoru didn't blame her. In fact, he looked up to her. She just dried her tears and carried on; a strong woman.

"I need to see him."

Kyoya was so... out of it.

His eyelids felt almost too heavy to even think about lifting, the beeping slowly growing in volume was piercing, and he just wanted to drift away once more. Everything was so muffled, but too vivid. His throat hurt. Everything hurt.

His mind was so slow. It was straining just trying to think of what happened - not to mention what was going on now. It was like wading through thick treacle, the rotted cells of his brain clumping together and turning into a goo that was far too viscous. It was like he was floating a couple of feet above his own body, unable to feel. He was sick of how intangible it all was.

Is this what death is like? Endless darkness for all eternity, nothing to occupy himself with? Maybe his aunt was right, maybe this was hell.

There was singing. It was gentle, sweet, some sort of lullaby that resided in dusty memories he didn't revisit for... whatever reason. He didn't know. The hand in his hair gently combed through the knotted strands, dexterously avoiding sharp pulls that plunked his hair from the follicle. It was so maternal, so caring, and he knew who it was immediately.

He tried to speak, but couldn't. Instead, he choked, his eyes going wide with panic as he found he couldn't move his hands, blinding him with bright white that he really wasn't ready for. Something plastic was in his mouth, down his throat, and he couldn't even move without something forcing his hands to stop.

"Kyo... Hey, Kyo, calm down," Fuyumi tried to soothe, but he just shook his head vigorously, pulling even harder, "Kyo, you're okay. You're fine. You've got a tube down your throat to help you breathe, okay? You can't take it out."

The beeping he'd heard in that odd, black place was getting increasingly fast, increasingly shrill. He still couldn't move his hands, and he wanted the tube out. It felt so uncomfortable, so stiff he was gagging and choking on it, and no matter how hard he thrashed he couldn't get out of whatever this was.

 _Restraints?_

Sure enough, the cuffs secured his wrists to the bed railings, soft and mailable so he didn't hurt himself. After all, what would be the point of tying down your patients if they could just tear their wrists open on the restraints?

"I'll call the doctor, okay? Just stay calm… Keep breathing…" She murmured, her voice far too close to a croaked sob, "We love you Kyoya. Just… Please, we all need you here. Want you here. You'll keep breathing, won't you?"

He didn't know. He didn't know how to explain that he didn't know, what with the tube down his throat, but he wasn't thrashing anymore. His chest still rose and fell a little too quickly, his arms were tense and straining against the straps around his wrists, but his eyes were locked onto her. His darling big sister.

He could see the tears freely pouring down her cheeks, smile watery and crumbling into dust by the second. She was trying so hard not to break, and it hurt in his chest. It was keen and sharp, rather than a mellow ache, and God did it hit him hard. Of course, guilt didn't fix it all. Love couldn't pull him back from the edge. That would be all too perfect and Hollywood-ready.

Instead, he let his eyes fall closed once more, and wondered if he'd stop breathing in his sleep. But he wondered, rather than hoped, and that was a small step.

* * *

 **N/A: Can you believe there's only one chapter left? Nearly finished, I can't believe it :')**


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